As Dean started toward him, an airplane turned hard around the nearby mountain. It came down so fast it looked almost out of control, more plummeting rock than glider. A small, high-winged plane with a boom tail, one engine at the nose and another at the rear of the cockpit behind the boom, the plane made almost no noise as it landed, bumping along the short field for only a hundred yards before slowing and starting to turn.
The aircraft’s basic shape reminded Dean of spotter airplanes he had seen long ago in Vietnam — Air Force close-air-support planes built by Cessna and officially known as 0-2As. This plane was painted green, the shade so dark it looked almost black. It rode across the field on tricycle landing gear with thick shock absorbers and tall wheels that were mounted four across at the axle.
Dean and Karr ran for their gear while the airplane turned and taxied back toward the end of the runway where it had landed. By the time they caught up to it the front prop had feathered to a halt. The hatch at the side of the cockpit popped open and a short bearded man wearing a baseball cap and a monstrous frown emerged from the craft.
“Fashone!” yelled Karr. “You? What are you doing here?”
“Suck it, Karr,” replied the pilot. He jumped down, kicked at the surface of the field, and shook his head. “This is an improved airstrip, huh? Rockman wouldn’t know dirt from concrete if he ate it.”
“Hey, that’s no way to say hello,” shouted Karr. “Long time no see.” He gave Fashona a shoulder chuck that nearly sent the lightly built pilot tumbling to the ground. “What’s happenin’, my friend?”
“Usual BS,” grumbled Fashona. He went to the belly of the short fuselage and opened the hatch on a cargo bay.
“Hey, Ray,” said Dean. “How are you?”
“I’m all right, Charlie. How about yourself?”
“Pretty good. Lia told me how you saved her in Korea.”
Fashona’s face turned red. “I didn’t save her, man. I just got a plane to where she was. That’s all I did. How is she?”
“Holding up.”
“Yeah, she’s tough. That’s good. Give me your bags. They have to be tied down in the back.”
“What kind of airplane is this, Fashone?” said Karr.
“Knock off the Fashone crap.”
“It’s pretty quiet,” said Dean. He’d met Fashona on his very first mission in, as one NSA briefer had put it, the good part of Siberia. Fashona was a contract pilot for the NSA who could handle everything from helicopters to airliners. He tended to be moody, and Karr always seemed to rub him the wrong way, even though the two men had worked together for a long time.
“The plane is pretty quiet,” Fashona told Dean. “These engines were specially built. But I have to tell you, they would not be my first choice. They’re more temperamental than my first girlfriend. They got borderline personality disorder. For real.”
Dean gave Fashona his bag. The pilot stood five-four or five-five and had to lift the bag up against his shoulder to slide it into the bay because the special gear on the aircraft lifted it so high off the ground.
“Spooks built this plane ten years ago,” said Fashona. “Typical CIA project — you can land the thing in mud just about with these wheels, no one can hear you coming until you’re two feet away, and there’s no stinking heat in the cockpit.”
“So, really, Fashone. What are you doing here?” said Karr.
“Knock off the Fashone crap. It’s Fashona. Uh.
“What are you doing here, Ray?”
“I’m on vacation. You brought fuel?”
“We have gasoline in the car,” said Karr.
“Oh, that’ll work great in a turboprop.” Fashona slapped down the cargo hatch. “Rockman said you might have fuel. Of course, he also claimed this was a decent airstrip.”
“Didn’t tell us about it,” said Karr.
“Just as well. Probably be too heavy to take off. You put on a few pounds, Tommy.”
“Get out. You think?”
“You oughta work out like Dean.”
Karr laughed. “I will when I’m his age.”
“Your parachutes are inside.” Fashona pulled open the cockpit door. “You better get it on before we take off. Fat boy in back, Karr. Sit in the middle of the plane. We have to worry about weight distribution.”
“It’s that razor wit that sets you apart, Fashone. That’s why we love you.”
“Wait,” said Dean as Fashona started to climb into the plane. “We’re jumping?”
“Hey, we’ll have chutes,” said Karr.
“Rockman didn’t tell you?”
“No. He’s supposed to brief us once we’re airborne. They’re still pulling information together.”
“Ah. You’ve jumped before, Charlie, right?” said Karr.
“Yeah.” Dean had jumped before, several times — and liked it about as much as putting his finger in a light socket. The last time he had parachuted had been into a desert — and even with all that sand to land on, he’d nearly busted both legs.
“You’re worried because it will be a night jump?” asked Fashona.
“No.” That was an honest answer — Dean hated jumping in daytime, too.
“Hey, if you’re worried, Charlie, we can always do a tandem,” said Karr. “I’ll just strap you onto my belly and away we go. No sweat.”
“Thanks,” said Dean. “I’ll manage somehow.”
56
La Oroya was about 112 miles east of Lima, but the real distance was measured vertically: the city sat in the mountains at 12,385 feet. The thin air took some getting used to. Lia felt light-headed, and her lungs seemed to scrape against her ribs for more air. Maybe she should have taken the
A group of small boys gathered around their SUV when Lia and Fernandez stopped for dinner. The kids clamored for money, blocking their way with outstretched hands and plaintive faces. When Fernandez told them there would be none, they responded by cursing him.
“Tourists have polluted their minds,” he said after he and Lia had pushed their way through and gone inside the restaurant. “They think they’re entitled to handouts.”
“Is this a big tourist town?”
“No, but tourists come through. It’s like a disease, the mentality. It’s really twisted. You saw.”
Lia tried a soup that included quinoa, a grain grown in the Andes. The vegetable base had a pumpkinlike flavor, and the grain filled her up. When they got outside, it had turned cold, and Lia pulled her jacket tight around her as they drove to the Hotel Meiggs, a small building about a quarter of a mile from the center of town. La Oroya did not have the array of first-class international hotels Lima featured; Hotel Meiggs was considered one of the town’s fancier establishments. The hotel had been named for Henry Meiggs, the American industrialist who had brought railroads to the Andes in the nineteenth century.
Lia thought the building and most of its dirt had probably greeted Meiggs when he surveyed the area. Her room was a dingy affair with a bed piled high with blankets — necessary, because she could see her breath in the frigid air.
Fernandez suggested that they share a drink in the cafe across the street. The cafe had American beer as well as some local concoctions. Lia ordered a Budweiser; Fernandez had an
A TV was on in the comer of the room. The regular programming had been preempted by reports on the discovery of an “apparent nuclear weapon” in the possession of the rebels far to the north. The skimpy footage of the find was played several times before the screen switched back to a pair of talking heads who speculated on
